


Alt.Subtext (The BFF Remix)

by Artsada



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BFFs, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artsada/pseuds/Artsada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yes!” Scott says, frustrated, and gives him a look like he’s short a mental brick or two. “I’ll pop your cherry for you!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alt.Subtext (The BFF Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Subtext: The Series](https://archiveofourown.org/works/857325) by [Artsada](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artsada/pseuds/Artsada). 



> So this is Alt.Subtext (the Best Friend Fuckers Remix). For those of you playing along at home with Subtext: The Series, note that these two tracks are obviously going to have very different tones. Technically XXL still is a prequel to this, but you don't have to read it for this to make sense. Scott and Stiles are coming from a different place, they already have a foundation of trust, and got through that flirty stupid beginning stuff as friends. In other words, here there be boy love and pure unadulterated fluff, wheee!
> 
> Episode tag for Season 3, Episode 3.

**1\. Unicorns and Other Fairytale Things**

* * *

 

“So,” Stiles says, both hands on the wheel, eyes firmly on the road. “You and Allison…?”

“Yeah,” Scott says, “I mean, we did, but… don’t. Anymore.”

“Well, she did try to kill you and several of your friends.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott says. Okay, so they’re still not going there.

It’s still only like seven thirty in the morning and they stopped for sausage McMuffins on the way from the morgue but they’re both kind of running on empty and there isn’t enough salt, sugar, and soda fountain coke in the world to fix that.

“Speaking of holes, but not the kind she wanted to poke us full of, _naturally_ \--” Scott reaches over and slaps at the side of his head “–-Hey!”

He shakes it off, indicates to turn into Scott’s drive, puts the jeep in park, and tries to breathe. “I really like being alive,” he says finally.

“Yeah,” Scott says, a lot kinder than he could be in this situation. “It’s a good look for you.”

He can’t even manage a laugh at that, just a somewhat lacklustre wink and a lisping “Thanks.” Stiles rubs the joint of his thumb against the little crease between his eyebrows and stalls for time. “You know, I was going to – with Heather--”

“I know,” Scott says, and gives him time. Scott has always been the one he wanted to tell first, the holder of all his little kid secrets and teenage hopes and fears. When they were tiny they used to share sleeping bags and read comics by torchlight under the covers and they’ve always been closer than brothers, or how Stiles imagines brothers would be.

… So Scott gives him a little more time, and then snorts like a frustrated horse. “Just ask me,” he says, challenging. “In third grade I pulled Suzie Cochran’s piggy tails because you told me she made fun of your hair. Suzie almost ruptured one of my testicles and my mom thought I had a crush on her for _years_. You think I’m going to let you _die?_ ”

When you think of it that way, they really have been doing stupid shit for and to each other for years, way before all this werewolf life and death stuff came around. That doesn’t make this easy though, and for once Stiles just can’t find the words. His left knee is bouncing up and down and he can’t stop fiddling with his keys, and he just hopes Scott gets it.   

Running a hand through his hair, he coughs in a kind of manly yet awkward way. “So…?”

“Yes!” Scott says, frustrated, and gives him a look like he’s short a mental brick or two. “I’ll pop your cherry for you!”

Then he’s slamming the side door and heading up into the house.

“What,” Stiles asks squeakily of his empty jeep, “Now?”

And why exactly does it sound like it’s going to be _his_ ass on the line? Stiles is an open minded, curious guy (and admittedly pretty damn flexible when there are orgasms on the line) but Scott could at least have offered to flip him for it.   _I guess potential-virgin-sacrifices can’t be choosers_ , Stiles thinks. Pausing to bang his head against the wheel one last time, Stiles gets out and goes after him.

They’re up the familiar stairs and to Scott’s room in less than a minute. Scott slouches inside, dumping his stuff, shoving a couple shirts off the bed, and humming something familiar, jaunty and up-tempo… Yes, that is Madonna, and this is officially the end because Stiles is going to fucking combust from embarrassment.

“I’ll remind you that this isn’t my first time being _touched_ , at least,” he says huffily (with a scowl), crosses from the doorway finally and slings his bag down on the floor. “This ain’t exactly my first time at the rodeo, kid.”

He looks over and just like that, all the levity has bled from Scott’s expression -- and it’s not because Stiles’ southern accent has really never been that great. He’s stopped humming, and he’s leaning propped-up on the bed, looking like he could – should - be growling instead.

“ _Maybe_ ,” he concedes eventually, eyes glinting gold, “but I’m the one whose gonna teach you to ride.”

Whoa… _whoa._ Stiles feels his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. The most awesome thing is that Scott actually looks a little embarrassed after he says it, blushing in his cheeks and down his chest, like he isn’t really sure where that came from (but likes it anyhow). _Damn_ , Stiles thinks, _you won this round!_ but isn’t really sure which one of them he means. Lies, damn lies! They’ve both won -- because Scott has somehow metamorphosed into a Teen Sex God and Stiles is about to bust the button off his pants.

“Okay, Cowboy,” he says after what is probably an awkward pause, and leaves it at that.

Scott’s doing that cool guy thing where he takes his t-shirt off by reaching both arms up behind his head and flexing his pecs. It’s giving Stiles kind of a giddy feeling; not just the fact that he’s getting his own private strip-show but that fact that he actually has permission to be watching this – that Scott _wants him_ to watch this. Stiles actually starts to sweat a little when Scott slides a hands down his (really, yes, very nice) chest and rests his thumb oh-so-casually on the button top button of his jeans.

“No, seriously,” Stiles says, desperate. “Where is this new found confidence coming from?”

“Supernatural creature of the night,” Scott says, pointing his thump at his chest, matter of fact. Stiles can’t quite work out if he’s purposely posing like that, or if it’s some sort of… natural aptitude. It’s mildly terrifying.

“Right.” Stiles has an unreasonable urge to clutch his shirt close around his body like a damsel in distress. He swears Scott was still mostly the lovable over-grown puppy for a while there after the bite, but something clearly happened to him over the summer. He’s just kind of… Zen.

“That,” Scott adds, “and I’ve actually done this before.” He’s not bragging, just matter-of-fact, but Stiles still doesn’t understand how he’s being so cool with this, because Stiles doesn’t exactly have the bits Scott’s used to working with.

“Big man,” Stiles says with a healthy dose of sarcasm. Scott’s clearly getting a bit big for his britches here (metaphorically speaking… of course) and Stiles has never been able to resist an invitation to cut someone back down to size.

Scott doesn’t seem all that cut though. “Never had any complaints,” he says, and pats at the bed.

So now Stiles is the one who kind of feels like he’s been cut-down at the knees. Scott pats the bed again and Stiles stumbles over obediently. Toes his shoes off, gets a knee up on the mattress and then doesn’t quite know how or where he’s supposed to fit. Scott wiggle-shuffles over to one side and grabs at Stiles’ shirt at the same time, puling him down to the bed beside him. Scott’s wiggling makes the mattress shake a little, and it’s really quite distracting. Stiles is still kind of frozen on his side of the narrow bed, but when Scott’s elbow makes a stab at his left kidney he turns his head to find out what the hell is going on.

Scott clearly has no shame, and also no patience because, Houston, we have nakedness. And hyper-fucking-ventilation. See, here’s the thing: Stiles could never be scared of Scott, but he is frankly a little terrified of his cock.

Clearly, he’s going to die a virgin.

“Don’t freak out on me now, man,” Scott says, peppy and so faux upbeat, “I’m here to save you!” He ducks his head a little then, sly, “didn’t you say you find my heroics exciting?” 

“Attractive,” Stiles corrects. “But, yeah, that’s almost a synonym - well done, Word a Day.” He lets his head thud back against the pillow and sighs.

Scott rolls up on to his elbow and leans over so he’s right in Stiles’ face.

“Stiles,” he says, but it’s almost a whisper. Stiles’ ear is hot, his skin tingling a little from the heat of Scott’s breach.

“What?”

“I do think you’re attractive to gay men,” Scott bestows on him with an earnest smile, and then a stupid, but incredibly hot, pink-lipped smirk -- “Mostly-straight ones too.”

Stiles’ belly jumps when he laughs, and he can feel the huff of Scott’s own laughter against his nose. Then there’s silence; Scott’s eyes are wide and guileless above him.

“Stiles?”

He narrows one eye, suspicious. “What?”

Scott puts his broad palm on Stiles’ chest, slowly and deliberately pinning him down. “Wanna make out, just to see how it feels?”

He’s blushing, he can feel it; honest-to-God blushing. “Aw, _honey_ ,” he says, “You _do_ liste--”

But the ‘n’ turns into an _mmmmm_ because they’re kissing. _Hell yeah._

It’s warm and slick, a little bit dirty (some part of his brain is just sitting in a corner hand-waving and saying ‘wrong, so wrong’ over and over again) and a little bit sweet – which is really very horrifying. Scott is concentrating completely on what he’s doing, consuming Stiles in tiny tender increments. He pulls back a little to suck on Stiles’ lower lip, teases gently with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue and taking the kiss deeper again. Stiles knows somehow that Scott is tasting him, learning him, and feels his cock swell in his briefs, hips tight to keep from thrusting up against Scott’s heat. Scott is totally in control of this kiss, keeps pulling away only to lick back into Stiles’ mouth like he can’t bear to be parted.

With the few of his brain cells still firing, Stiles can’t help thinking to himself that this is all going rather well. Then --

“Who was it,” Scott asks against his mouth, apropos of fucking nothing.

“Who?” Stiles moans, trying to get that tongue back in his mouth.

“Who _touched_ you,” Scott growls, like a sub-verbal brand: ‘ _mine’_. He’s looking deep into Stiles’ eyes like he can somehow divine the answer there, and Stiles is suddenly afraid he’s giving everything away.

Scott’s eyes narrow. “It was a _guy?_ ”

Well, shit. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t know!” He’s looking a little wild, and there is really something weird about nakedness and yelling in the same context.

 _Okay_ , Stiles thinks. “Why does it matter now?”

“Because I’m about to have my dick in your ass it’s driving me crazy because maybe I don’t just wanna be your first,” Scott’s got that look on his face again, like his own mouth has betrayed him.

“What?” Stiles asks, reflexive. Scott’s eyes are suddenly turning shifty, and Stiles knows he’s trying to think of a way to back-peddle, fast. “What,” Stiles says again, because this shit is bananas, “so you want to be my… last?”

Scott is actually fucking pouting and there’s no way it should look this good. “Maybe,” he says, grudging. “Maybe I just don’t want any one else to have you… for now.”

And Stiles has to think about that one for, oh… about zero point three seconds. “Okay.”

“Really?” Scott’s looking at him like _he’s_ the one acting crazy.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, trying not to sound as serious as this feels. “Really. But it goes both ways.”

“Of _course_!” Scott almost sprains something trying to look offended and grateful at once.

God bless his little heart.

“So…” Stiles poses after a beat, “Can we maybe get back to it?”

“Right,” Scott says, nods like this is serious fucking business ( _ha!_ ). “It.”

Stiles’ heart skips a little beat because he is an idiot, but at least he’s not alone in this. Scott’s kissing him again, and he’s still got his hand pressed against Stiles’ chest, one leg slung over his now so they’re pressed against each other, belly to belly, thigh to thigh, except Scott is gloriously fucking naked, and Stiles is still feeling weirdly shy. Scott slide his hand down to Stiles’ belly and up under the hem of his t-shirt, never losing contact. His hand is hot and huge against Stiles’ skin and he can’t help but arch his back a little, help, as Scott pulls his shirts up and off over his head.

“Nice,” Scott says, like they’re in some sort of gym buddy mutual muscle admiration society, and not in bed. He seems supremely comfortable sitting there naked, gaze direct and appreciative on Stiles’ bare chest. He doesn’t seem to have any urge to cover himself, and Stiles kind of likes that, because he can clearly see Scott’s interest in the rising curve of his erection and it makes Stiles’ own cock twitch with want. Thank God for internet porn, that’s all he can say; if he’d been born in the dark ages of the 80s he would have no fucking clue what to do with that. As it is, he just wants Scott’s cock inside him, now.

“Do you have a--?”

“Oh shit,” Scott says. “Yeah, hang-on.” He rolls over to the side of the bed, yanks open the draw of the night stand and rummages around for a bit.

“Got it!” he says, emerging triumphant. Stiles doesn’t know if he wants to face!palm or sit up and beg.

“Good job, buddy,” he says, “but we’re going to need something to… ease the way?” This is why Stiles is a planner; spur of the moment is just not in his comfort zone.

Scott’s eyes are like saucers, like he’s maybe actually contemplating the mechanics of dick-in-ass for the first time. “I guess I could…” he says, and sort of sticks his tongue out, wiggles it around.

“Holy shit,” Stiles says. Because, seriously, he is just not ready for this yet. “No, no, do you just have something we can use for-- for lube?”

Stiles can almost see the little light bulb go on over his head. Scott rolls back over to the bedside table and rummages around comes up with a tube of unscented moisturiser. He looks strikingly pleased with himself. “Will this do? I use it sometimes, when I…”

And what is this correlation between sex and an inability to speak in complete sentences? Stiles refuses to even contemplate the fact that the image of Scott spanking it alone in his bed gets him _really fucking hot_ , because it’s not like Stiles didn’t know Scott probably jerked off, but he never really felt the need to think about it before.

Makes him reach out to take the tube, crack it open, then he’s got Scott’s slick, hot, dick in his hand, just thick and hard and perfect. It’s everything and nothing like doing this for himself, and he can’t help but use it to kind of pull Scott closer, til he falls back down to the bed, holding himself up on his hands either side of Stiles’ body.

“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, _shit_ , Stiles.” And as love words go they’re probably pretty poor, but the shocked-shaky need in his voice is making Stiles’ stomach and balls go tight.

“You’re gonna to need to use your fingers,” he says, instead of something stupid like ‘I love you.’

“I--”

“Need to put them inside me,” Stiles says, panting, and he probably has crazy-eyes. “Get me ready.”

He’s still got his fist around Scott’s cock, slick-squeezing up and down, so he feels the jump, the extra little pump of blood that means he really fucking likes that.

Then proceeds a really kind of embarrassing sequence in which Stiles tries to get his pants undone and out from under his ass without letting go of Scott’s dick because, frankly, he’s a little scared it might disappear. Like this could all still be a dream and he’s going to wake up humping his mattress with a death warrant still on his head. Scott’s laughing at him, that asshole, when eventually he just slaps Stiles’ hand away from his pants and takes over instead. Stiles is happy to let him have at it because he gets to keep his fingers ringed under the head of Scott’s cock, twisting just a little as he swipes his thumb over the head, chasing precome from the slit.

It must be the wolfiness, because Scott seems perfectly able to thrust his cock up into Stiles’ hands and undo the button and zip of Stiles’ pants at the same time; seems like his hand-eye co-ordination really has improved, on the field and off.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Stiles says, prayerful, because suddenly Scott has his hand inside Stiles’ pants and coaxing his cock out with single-minded determination. Then there’s just this bizarre mental-physical feed back loop where he’s got a cock in his hand and a hand on his cock and everything is fucking alright with the world.

It’s this barrage of hot-tight-want and Stiles can feel himself speeding towards the edge like a bullet and doesn’t want that yet. Wants to do this right, and come with Scott’s cock inside him. It’ll be a fucking miracle if he makes it though.

Scott’s fisting him a little too hard, too fast, too good, and he has put a hand on his wrist, make him stop-- “Wait, _shit_ , stop or I’ll come.”

“Okay,” Scott says, and gives a tricky little twist under the head, bending closer as if he wants to see it happen.

“ _Aaahh!”_ Stiles shouts ( _squeals_ ) and has to slap at him until he seems willing to keep his hands to himself. “No means no,” he grouches.

Scott - perfect and golden, sitting on his heals on the bed, mouth-watering cock rising between newly muscled thighs - Scott looks stricken, like Stiles actually reached right out and slapped him in the face.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles says, exasperated, “No.”

Then, when Scott looks like he might actually cry, Stiles shakes his head, shucks his pants and underwear, and spreads his legs.

Says, “Come here,” as gently as he can.

Scott’s pupils are dilated but he hesitates, so Stiles gets his knees up, plants his feet on the bed and tilts his hips in welcome. Feels like he should be wearing a sign around his neck: ‘Open for business’. Scott gets with the program pretty quickly after that, slides his palms up the backs of Stiles’ thighs and spreads them, pushes his knees up and back until Stiles is forced to hold them, hold himself open to Scott’s hungry eyes.

Scott’s literally licking his lips, palms Stiles’ ass and spreads his cheeks wide, staring curious and hot at the tight pink furl of Stiles’ hole. Then Scott’s thumb just kind of brushes against him for a bit, teasing or just genuinely uncertain Stiles doesn’t really know, but it feels good, and feels better yet when he finally presses a little harder and just sort of pops the tip of his thumb _in._ The stretch of it is seriously dirty-wrong, but his ass and thighs are twitching because it’s _good_ , and he wants more.

“More,” he says, “I can take it.” Feels good to think of this like a challenge, just another competition between guys: who can score the most goals, who can piss their name in the snow, who can take the most fingers up their ass… Yeah, not quite, but Stiles like the thrill of it anyway – being open and on display like this – as long as Scott’s the only one who gets to see.

Scott just twists his thumb around slowly, gets the second knuckle in and just that, _God_ , it feels huge in him, feels insane to think somehow his cock is going to follow. Scott’s rescued the moisturiser out from under him, and soon enough he’s replacing that thumb with two long, thick, fingers, slick and sliding in easy til he can scissor and crook them, stretching Stiles out. He keeps pumping, twisting, them in until Stiles is _writhing_ on the bed, hips shuddering up into Scott’s hands and a constant whining moan falling from his lips.

“Scott,” he pants, “come on, do it.”

Scott, gentleman that he is, slides his body closer and leans down to press a kiss against his lips, tongue flickering in a gentle caress so frustrating Stiles has to suck it into his mouth and show him the kind of intensity he needs. Scott takes his hand away and there’s the sound of the condom coming out, and Scott is shaking against his lips, but Stiles knows this is right, knows that he wants it, now, even if he wouldn’t otherwise be dead.

Then Scott pauses, fucking _pauses_ , with the head of his cock pressed up against Stiles’ hole. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he scrapes out, face a mask of tortured earnestness.

“Put your dick in me _now_ ,” Stiles says, and digs his heels into Scott’s ass.

Scott does, one long, only slightly jerky thrust, and _shit, fuck_ , it hurts but it’s more than that – it’s a revelation, because there is another person inside him and it feels like forever and _meant to be_. Scott stays there, for a second, as deep as he can get with his hips pressed against Stiles’ ass and lets him get used to it. Thing is, Stiles doesn’t know how this is ever something you could get used to; this feeling of being full and stretched and part of something – someone - else.

It’s almost a shock to remember his own erection again, but reminded he is by the teasing brush of Scott’s stomach against it as he starts up a slow, rolling rhythm.

“I’m not gonna last long,” Scott says, flushed and grunting little _nng nng nngs_ every time he thrusts back in again. Even with supernatural strength and endurance, they’re still teenage guys, and Stiles is pretty sure it’s a miracle both of them have mad it this far without getting metaphorical egg on their face.

Stiles fights the urge to laugh or say something stupid, which isn’t all that hard because he can barely fucking _breathe_ , has to let go of one of his knees to reach down and wrap his hand loosely around his cock, just holding himself, feeling it, as Scott scorches him from the inside. Can’t help but squeeze himself, just pulling at his cock a little bit, not sure if he’s making it better or worse because they’re not done yet and he doesn’t actually want to come.

Scott’s not really helping him out with this, though, because every thrust now is hitting something bright and sharp inside him, spikes of white-hot pleasure right to his balls, and he’s really going for it; hot, sweaty, skin making loud slapping sounds with the pounding of his hips. Stiles starts to feel it curling in his belly, in his spine, like a fuse is being laid and lit.

“ _Next time_ ,” Scott growls, panting, as his thrusts run ragged off the edge. “I want you to do me.”

“Unnf,” Stiles says, and then his head fucking explodes. Or, at least, something does, because there are rolling, thundering, shockwaves radiating through his entire body and he’s gasping, seizing, clenching uncontrollably on Scott’s cock still deep and huge inside him, and crying out ‘cos he is _done._

Scott’s holding still like he knows, like he wants to wait, wants to feel it all, but Stiles is just not having that so he just goes with it, clenching his ass like he means it – ‘cos he does – wrapping one hand around the back of Scott’s neck, hauling him down and straight-out swallowing his tongue. Last few spurting pumps fall across both their bellies til they’re smearing wet and sticky together. Scott moans, long and fuzzy-feeling in his mouth, and he gets one thrust, two, then Scott is coming inside him, riding it out.   

Scott eventually pulls his mouth away, rests his forehead on Stiles’ sweaty shoulder and they just lie there for a while; belly to belly, eyes closed.

Some indeterminable time later and Stiles can’t feel his toes. Can’t feel his lips, and everything in between is just tingling, like his body’s got some place to be but his brain has well and truly left the building.

And, “ _Oh, shit,_ ” Stiles says, “is this love?” His mouth’s run away with his head.

Scott just laughs though, lazy and low. “No, idiot, it’s endorphins.”

“Big word,” Stiles manages, somewhere muzzy between fondness and blunted contempt.

Then Scott slings an arm across his chest and nuzzles semi-consciously into the dark-damp hair curling at his neck. Stiles almost has the urge to start a slow clap, but luckily none of the energy right now to follow through. He thinks they’re all done, all sold, but then Scott’s pressing whispered words against the hot, bare, skin of his neck.

“Love,” he murmurs, mouthing gently like he wants to lick, “is fourteen years of friendship, honesty, and absolute trust.”

“Right,” Stiles says, because Scott has always been like a one-two punch of idiocy and blinding insight, but it’s never ever made him feel like this.

Scott squeezes his chest. “ _And_ some totally awesome sex.”

Stiles’ belly jumps when he laughs; it makes Scott sling a leg over him too, and it feels good. “Well,” he says, “thank fuck for that.”


End file.
